


Portrait

by asenath_waite



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Creepy, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Modern Middle Earth, Mostly Dialogue, Unnamed OCs - Freeform, mentioned gore, mentioned torture, outsider pov, silvergifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 10:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18798940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asenath_waite/pseuds/asenath_waite
Summary: "The Martyrdom of Celebrimbor of Eregion" is a classic subject in the art of later Middle-earth, and some interpretations possess a disturbing verisimilitude.





	Portrait

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have no idea how the art world works.

In retrospect, putting together an art competition on the subject of "The Martyrdom of Celebrimbor of Eregion" was guaranteed to be a disturbing experience. Far too many entries involved real blood, and anything resembling good taste was disappointingly rare. So it was with some trepidation that the competition's director examined a large brown-paper-wrapped painting that appeared inside the gallery door at 2am on the last day for submissions.

"This door is supposed to be locked," he growled at his young assistant.

"It is locked." She yanked on it to demonstrate.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I've had about enough of these jackasses thinking they're clever and edgy when they're just being obnoxious. What does the card say?"

"What card? Oh, I see it." She tugged a little red envelope out from under the twine tied around the painting. "There's no name on it, just a note saying any winnings should be donated to, um…"

"To what?"

She giggled. "Wolf Haven International."

" _What?_ That is--that is not funny." The back of his neck prickled like someone was watching him. He rubbed at it, trying to banish the feeling.

"I don't get it," his assistant said.

"Did you even read that info packet I gave you? Sauron is strongly associated with wolves." He glanced towards the paper-covered windows of the gallery but saw only his own pallid, wide-eyed reflection.

She shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first entrant to try implying that they're really Sauron. Do we open it?"

He hesitated. No one should have been able to pick the lock on the gallery door, bring in an eight-foot canvas, leave, and lock the door behind them without making enough noise to bring him and his assistant out of the office. But someone had.

"Are you ok?" his assistant asked. "You know Sauron's just a myth, right?"

"Of course I know he's a myth," he snapped. "The whole thing is a myth. Open it already."

"Ok, ok, no need to bite my head off." She pulled the paper off the painting and they both stepped back.

He gagged.

"Jesus fuck," she whispered. "This is the most incredible thing I've ever wanted to unsee."

Some subtle trick of perspective made it seem like they were looking up at the mounted figure of Celebrimbor. Rosy dawn light caressed what was left of his skin and outlined his wounds in pitiless detail. He gazed down at them with ancient, aching sadness in his dark eyes.

"He's not dead," the assistant whispered. "Oh my God, how could he still be alive with those injuries?"

"Supposedly the Eldar possessed incredible powers of endurance," the director said. "Maybe enough to survive all of that."

"Look at his hands," she continued. "They're untouched. Every other part of his body is a bloody mess but his hands are perfect; what kind of sick joke is that?!"

"Supposedly Sauron was a craftsman. Maybe he liked Celebrimbor's hands." He swallowed down bile. "Look at the anatomy."

"I'm looking," she said. "Damn. You think Sauron liked it too?"

"Not _that_ anatomy," he clarified. "The most defined muscles are in the arms, chest, and shoulders. This is the kind of body that comes from working hard, not working out. This is--"

"Look at that shadow," she interrupted. "The one on his feet. If I move over here it still looks like my shadow. How does that even work? And the brushwork is like a Renaissance master--who uses that kind of technique anymore?"

"I know of a few forgers who have the skill to paint something like this, but not the vision," he said. "I don't see a signature, do you?"

"No--wait, yes, I do. Hidden in those white flowers in the lower right corner. It's just a letter 'A'."

"A for Annatar," he said. "The name Sauron used in Eregion." Cold crept up through the soles of his shoes.

"Ok, this is seriously starting to creep me out." She wrapped her arms around herself and glanced at the windows.

"Sauron is just a myth," he said, kneeling to examine the signature and flowers more closely.

"Right, of course he is."

"Do you have your phone?" he asked.

"Yeah, why?"

"Look up 'language of flowers asphodel'. Spelled with a 'ph', not an 'f'."

"Dude, I know how to spell it. Hold on…oh my God."

"What?"

She swallowed audibly. "'My regrets follow you to the grave'."

"That's what I thought." He sighed. "This is our winner. Nothing else even comes close. But we're going to have to display it with a curtain and a warning."

"Yeah, of course. I'll get that set up first thing tomorrow. You don't think…"

"Myth," he repeated firmly. "The whole story is a myth. No archaeological evidence, no verified contemporary sources. A very influential myth, nothing more."

"Right. Let's just keep telling ourselves that. Hey, is it cold in here?"

 

Across the street, a short man in a long black coat sat by the window of a 24 hour café, fiddling with his empty mug and watching the covered gallery windows.

"How'd you lose that finger?" the elderly waitress asked as she poured him more coffee. "Must be a good story."

"No story," he said. He had an old smoker's voice, low and raspy. "Just a stupid mistake."


End file.
